The Sun was setting as I struggled
Up to this mountain-pass
Where, for a grip between bare rock,
Stun trees and ragged grass
Struggle with the same dry fierceness
As, between their dry
Leaves, the few small flowers strain
For a smidgin of the sky.

Listening to the nightjars call,
I think I understand
The sadness in all exiles,
That need for a native land
Which, all around me, francolins
Repeatedly insist
In voices tired with homelessness
Must, known or not, exist.

I stand here halted. Suddenly
These things at which I stare,
Sky and mountain, once so loved,
Are seen as solely there
As images on whose half-truths
I need no more rely.

My native land is loneliness,
My only need is I.